[center][url=https://fontmeme.com/fonts/linoleo-script-font/][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/191111/67ef1abddb702b4a57fe14394252f37f.png[/img][/url] [url=https://fontmeme.com/fonts/linoleo-script-font/][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/191111/2f8d6f6a6821ae861deb3f00d885a150.png[/img][/url] [/center] As she scanned the already-crowded ballroom, Genevieve Anders breathed an unexpected sigh of relief. Her eyes caught on violent pinks and midnight blues; necklaces dripping with diamonds and rubies—here, a plunging neckline, daringly low; there, a yellow dress covered in modest lace. So far, the other guests represented a healthy spread between the ostentatious and the understated, which left her to fall comfortably into the realm of quirky-but-unexceptionable. When it came to going unseen, the younger daughter of Maris had two strategies: either become invisible, or put on a mask—literal or figurative. For the welcoming ball, she had chosen the latter. Genevieve had spent hours agonizing over an outfit meant to look like it had involved no agonizing at all. From the winged liner painted above her eyes to the careful array of tiny crystals scattered beneath them like rhinestone freckles, every choice was precise. Long red-orange bangs hung in slashes against her cheekbones, easy to duck behind when she needed a moment to collect herself—such as when she and Phillip had paused in the palace doorway, recovering from the flurry of paparazzi waiting just outside. The rest of her hair was braided into a crown and threaded with still more crystals, taking the place of an actual tiara. Her floor-length gown was her nod to her country—layers of chiffon, all in shifting shades of blue and grey, like the Marisian sea. That, her parents had approved before she left. The mulberry lip color? Not so much, but it, too, was a strategic choice. She only knew a handful of people in this castle personally. The rest likely had almost no idea who she was—and if they did, it was through either her brother or her skimpy social media presence. Which meant the only hope she had of being recognized, short of tattooing a line of obscure poetry across her chest, was to show up wearing one of her signature lipsticks. It was because of that lipstick that Genevieve reminded herself not to worry at her lower lip as Phillip—who had only released her long enough for them to make their respective bow and curtsey to their hosts—took her arm again, wrapping warm fingers around hers. “See anybody we know?” “Plenty of people [i]you[/i] know,” Gen murmured, though even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t entirely fair. Already, she’d picked out one mutual friend in the crowd—Alejandro was hard to miss—and she was almost certain she’d caught brief sight of both Erik and Ara: two of the people she liked most who liked each other least. No sign of the person she most wanted to see, but knowing Henri, he wouldn’t be out in the open. Genevieve nudged her brother, teasing. “Have you spotted Ali yet?” There was laughter in Phillip’s voice: “How could I not?” He nodded in the other prince’s direction. “But he’s busy, and it’s not like he’ll be hard for us to find.” Reaching up to adjust the silk ascot tied about his neck, the same grey-blue as the darkest folds of Genevieve’s dress, Phillip glanced around. “Besides, I promised Imani I’d find her as soon as we got here.” A second after he said it, they both spotted the princess in question, Gen squeezing Phillip’s arm at the same time that he murmured, [i]“There,”[/i] and started walking. Though she knew she’d have to stand on her own eventually, Genevieve let Phillip play escort for as long as sensibility allowed, sticking close as he nodded to acquaintances and wove his way toward the princess of Massylii.